Fades
by SlvrSoleAlchmst1
Summary: It's the anniversary of the Bloody Valentine tragedy. Athrun, Yzak, and Dearka visit the new memorial museum, where Athrun stumbles across a piano. He wonders, frustrated, how he's supposed to remember the fallen when it seems like everything just fades.


_A/N: Erm, Happy Valentine's Day? This is far from a happy piece. I'll admit right now that I cried when I wrote it. (Gee, thanks, "Theme of Tears.")_

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It wasn't just because of Bloody Valentine. No – there was something more nauseating knotted deep in Athrun's stomach as he stood there, unmoving but for his fingers that twitched with unease. His throat was dry, lending his voice a gruff quality that the other two pretended not to notice. He couldn't believe it. It had been two years since the end of the war, and yet…

And yet whenever February the fourteenth came around, no matter where he was, no matter what duty Athrun Zala was attending to, the memories would flood back as if time itself had ceased to move. He would see the video screen again in his mind's eye. Then his legs would tense, like they had when he'd he witnessed Junius Seven's annihilation in motion. He'd remember freezing in the street, while the colors of the brilliant explosion played across his stricken features. Those images had burned themselves into his brain, like scorch marks on a table that couldn't quite be hidden by a tablecloth. The day that it happened, he hadn't even been able to cry.

Athrun felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Dearka. The blonde didn't say a word. He nodded as if to say, "Let's move on," but the green-eyed youth stayed where he was.

He had already placed flowers on the grave of his mother, Lenore Zala. He'd said goodbye, at least until next year. It would not do to dwell on her untimely departure, especially when this trip with Yzak and Dearka was about so much more, and not only the Bloody Valentine tragedy.

The headstone he stood at now belonged to Rusty Mackenzie. It looked like all the rest – simple, plain, and lonely. Athrun almost shook his head at the irony in his observation. With the countless rows of neat, identical grave markers, how could Rusty be alone? Maybe it wasn't that Athrun was concerned about Rusty's lack of company.

It was the way Rusty blended in with the others that dissatisfied him. If the name on the headstone were erased, Rusty would have disappeared too. There'd be nothing left to distinguish him from the other war victims, and damn it… Athrun clenched his fists helplessly. Didn't Rusty deserve to stand out for his bravery? The fiery redhead had been the first of their group to fall. He'd been confident, like Miguel, but kinder. It didn't seem right that Rusty should mingle in anonymity.

He pivoted when Dearka cleared his throat. There was one more grave left to visit. The three of them strode in silence along the winding path.

"You know," Yzak ventured, "The memorial museum they said they were building is done. My mother got the news from the Council yesterday." His voice was flat. The silver-head cleared his throat but didn't volunteer any more information.

Dearka was observing Yzak from the corner of his eye, and when the former Duel pilot was finished, he spoke. "Did you want to stop by there?" the blonde asked, directing the question at Athrun.

"Yes," Athrun responded when he found his voice. "I think I'd like that." His feet stopped of their own accord, and for a moment Athrun was left to wonder why. When he looked down, there was the familiar marker gazing up at him. Nicol Amarfi's grave. His insides twisted.

Without a word, Athrun gave the deceased boy his best ZAFT salute, and Dearka and Yzak followed his example.

"The bastard," Yzak gritted under his breath after letting a respectful silence pass. Athrun wasn't sure if Yzak had meant it to be heard. "I still can't believe…"

But Yzak didn't need to finish his sentence. They all knew what words ought to have followed. _I can't believe he sacrificed his life so suddenly_. Athrun held back a wry smile though, because it was Yzak who said it, after all. Had the former Duel pilot been in his usual state of ill humor, Athrun was sure a remark regarding "that damned Strike," would have been let loose as well.

"We called him a coward," Dearka said, "But it turned out he was the bravest of us all. It still makes me feel like shit, even after all this time."

Yzak smirked, but it was bitter. "All of this _is_ shit," he replied. "These graves, these deaths…" Then he scowled. "None of it should have happened at all. But it did when Junius Seven was attacked, and that's why Nicol is here under six feet of worthless dirt. That's why _we're_ here, because Bloody Valentine started everything, so take a good look, Dearka."

Athrun watched the blonde heave a sigh before looking away himself. Yzak's words had pierced him. He hadn't thought it possible, but perhaps Yzak was the most torn by this. It had been Yzak that called them together, Yzak that insisted they go in full ZAFT regalia. Athrun ran a hand aimlessly over the crimson material of the uniform that, miraculously, still fit him. He wondered if his fallen comrades were watching. If they'd feel pride when they noted the elite red uniforms that stood for everything they'd died to protect – the PLANTs, the Coordinator race, and he, Dearka, and Yzak. Athrun had planned on visiting the cemetery all along, but it was Yzak that phoned him and demanded that they all go together. Maybe it was just the Duel pilot's way of repenting.

"We should leave soon if we want to make it to the memorial before sundown," Dearka announced. Athrun only clenched his teeth.

There were so many things he wanted to say to Nicol. Things he should have said when the boy was still alive, things he wanted to say now. He, Dearka and Yzak had matured. They had grown, learned… _lived_. Those opportunities had been taken from Nicol Amarfi after fifteen years of life, a mercilessly short duration when compared with how much time Athrun still had left. Did he deserve it? Did he deserve this life, when Nicol's had been snuffed out? The better part of Nicol's years had been given to ZAFT, spent at the academy and on the Vesalius. Nicol had tossed aside his childhood to volunteer for the military. He'd been a ZAFT soldier until the bitter end.

"Athrun," Dearka said gently.

"I keep finding it hard to call up his image in my mind," Athrun said. "I keep struggling to remember the sound of his voice. Not just Nicol, but the others too. My mother. The more time passes, the less I can remember."

Yzak stayed silent for a moment, then stamped his foot and exploded. "Why did it have to be them? The stupid war, those stupid Naturals—"

"Yzak!" Dearka's tone was sharp. The silver-head's mouth snapped shut, but his pale lips pursed and he quivered in rage.

"You just have to do the best you can not to forget," Dearka offered, but he seemed unsure himself. His violet eyes were cinched tightly at the corners.

The three of them left in somber spirits. Athrun drove his sleek silver vehicle in silence, while Dearka gazed out the window in front and Yzak brooded in back. The new memorial building rose in the distance as they neared, plain and simple like the cemetery. Athrun found he couldn't quite sort out his emotions. A memorial museum for the dead was certainly a humble gesture, and an honorable one. But would it help them to remember the lives of the fallen, or would it fuel the fire of hatred that already burned between Naturals and Coordinators?

Inside, they found the museum clean and compact. The first room was devoid of furniture, but the walls were what made Athrun catch his breath. Empty wall space had been provided so that the loved ones of the deceased could tack up pictures and messages. Over the short span of time that the museum had been open, the white surfaces had quickly filled. A mosaic of happy smiles and grinning faces now peered at visitors from four sides.

Dearka stopped in the middle of the room. With his hands tucked inside his pockets, he looked around. Yzak appeared stunned. He didn't move from the doorway. Athrun could understand why. It was almost too much to witness the sea of carefree faces, when it was clear every one of those faces belonged to someone that would never smile again. The three of them must have been the only ones there, because each movement echoed and no other voices reached them from the adjacent rooms.

Moving slowly as if in a dream sequence, Athrun neared the closest wall. A young boy in a green sweater caught his eye. The boy held a soccer ball in his hands, and he was grinning from ear to ear in front of the goal. Beneath it was a written message in tidy cursive.

_Go for it, Seamus! You can do it! We love you always, wherever you are. –Mom and Dad._

Athrun tore his eyes from the other messages after that. Dearka had already shifted to the next room, and Athrun followed with legs like lead. At once he heard a sharp intake of breath.

Yzak Joule let out the worst curse Athrun had ever heard him use. The color drained from the Duel pilot's face. "It can't be! Are those…" The other two followed his gaze.

"Pieces of Junius Seven," Athrun choked out, scanning the bits of debris that lay scattered under the protection of glass cases. Did he dare venture closer?

The sight made him sick. The agricultural PLANT had been torn apart. Bodies had been sucked into the deep freeze of outer space and set drifting. Two hundred forty three thousand, seven hundred and twenty one people had perished when the nuclear missile struck. Athrun did not need to read the gleaming plaque to recall that statistic.

And it wasn't just the Junius Seven residents. How many more had died? Thousands. And yet, what was that number other than just a number? It wouldn't account for the despair of those robbed of their loved ones.

Yzak's fist struck the glass that boxed in a child's teddy bear. The stuffing flowed pitifully from numerous tears, and one of its button eyes dangled from a fraying thread.

"You'll break the glass," Athrun said, but his voice was hollow, and he made no move to stop Yzak's frustrated reaction. Dearka was reading the plaque with a barely controlled calm.

Then Athrun trembled. Something in the corner of the room seized his attention. The dark wood reflected the orange sunlight that filtered through the adjacent window. Dust particles danced above its smooth, curved surface. It was a grand piano.

Athrun Zala was moving toward it before he could stop himself, his hand slipping inside the jacket of his uniform. He felt the crinkle of paper, and slowly, he withdrew the rumpled sheets that he hadn't dared looked upon for so long.

By now, the other two had realized what he was doing.

"Nicol's sheet music," Dearka uttered, and Athrun nodded. "Can you play?"

"A little," Athrun said. "I learned a bit after…" _After Nicol died._ He couldn't bring himself to finish. He swallowed. "I found them in his locker, on the day that he was killed."

"And you kept them?"

"I…"

"Just play," Yzak interrupted. Then, "You're an idiot, Zala. An idiot to even think that you can…"

"Yzak," Dearka hushed him, and as always, the silver-head fell silent. Still, Athrun noticed a glimmer of what might have been tears forming in the corners of Yzak's blue eyes.

Athrun ran his fingers lightly over the keys and sat down. Was this what Nicol felt each time the boy sat at his piano at home? This warmth of serenity and comfort? Athrun shook his sapphire hair from his eyes and set the sheets gently on the piano. His slender fingers found the correct notes, and the sound drifted like chiming bells through the silence of the memorial museum.

He played with only half his mind on the notes. The familiar tune pained him. The sorrow welled deep inside his heart and only seemed to grow with the duration of the song, to peak with the crescendos and to drop like an unpleasant pitfall with the soft, quiet patterns of black, white, and black keys again. The music filled the room, caressed the silence and made it beautiful again with melody. And it _was_ beautiful, even coming from Athrun's trembling, unsure fingers. Not even his beginner's blunders could mar the innocence of the composition that Nicol had written himself.

Nicol had played these same notes at his piano recital and received a standing ovation. Athrun remembered cheering the younger boy on. The memories were a blur now, but Nicol's words on the Vesalius later that week still drifted inside Athrun's head. _Come on, you were sleeping_. But the boy had smiled at Athrun when he said it.

Athrun bit the inside of his lip and fought to keep playing. Had he known that Nicol would lose his life soon after, Athrun would have struggled to imprint every detail of the recital into his memory forever. But he hadn't known, and it had all faded. The sheet music was all that was left.

A droplet of moisture landed on the back of Athrun's hand as he played. He was crying. The essence of the boy that had been his friend, the memory of the soldier that had sacrificed himself for Athrun's sake… Nicol's gentle presence filled the room, and the notes on the page were what tied the last image of the Blitz pilot to their world. Nicol Amarfi was gone, but maybe he was watchng over them, and maybe Rusty and Miguel were listening too. Did they know that Nicol could play like an angel?

The melody was for Nicol, but not Nicol alone. It was for Miguel. It was for Rusty. It was for Lenore Zala. It was for everyone that had suffered, lost, or cried. It was for he and Yzak and Dearka. Athrun let his vision blur as the notes slowed and finally came to a sweet, elegant finish. Dearka and Yzak had faces like stone. Then there was a sob, but it had not come from the three ZAFT soldiers.

Athrun looked to the door. A woman with flowing green hair had her hand clamped over her mouth, and her cheeks were glistening.

"Mrs. Amarfi," Athrun excalimed, taken aback.

It took her a while to answer through her quiet sobbing. "I-I'm sorry. For… For a moment I thought that it might have been my Nicol playing."

Athrun stepped away from the grand piano, feeling guilty. "I didn't mean to upset you," he apologized, blinking back his own tears.

She shook her head. "How could you have known I was here?" she asked. "I only came to the memorial to…" She trailed off, burying her face in her hands and sinking weakly to the floor. But Athrun knew what she had tried to say. She'd come to put a picture of her son on the wall in the other room, and then she'd heard the melody that was comforting and nerve-wracking all at once. It was the sound of the grand piano she'd so often heard when her son still lived.

Without a word, Athrun retrieved the pile of sheet music and offered it to her. "He had these. I'm sorry I didn't return them to you earlier."

"This was his last piece," Nicol's mother whispered. "He was so proud of it."

"We were proud of him too," Dearka spoke up, heading for the door and motioning to Yzak and Athrun. He wanted to give her some time alone.

But Athrun remained where he was. There was something he wanted desperately to ask. Mrs. Amarfi seemed to sense it, because she looked up at him and smiled through her tears.

The words left Athrun's lips like smoke. "Aren't you worried that you might forget him?"

Her smile grew, and her eyelashes glimmered with the last of the wetness. "You must be Athrun, the son of former Chairman Zala," Athrun confirmed her statement. "Nicol used to say you were perceptive and kind."

Athrun Zala's eyes flew wide, and he fought for composure.

"If you care about his memory enough to ask me that question," she said, "Then you'll never have to worry about forgetting. We never forget the people that meant something to us." Then she burst into another bout of tears. "I'm sorry. If you could just…"

Athrun quickly excused himself and followed Yzak and Dearka out, recognizing her need for privacy. The three ZAFT soldiers climbed the side of the grassy hill beside the memorial building. The sun was sinking now, and the brilliant reds and oranges set everything awash with a surreal glow.

"What the hell did she mean," Yzak snorted as he leaned back. "'We never forget the people that meant something to us?' Even for her, wouldn't life just keep on moving forward after a while?"

Athrun tossed a sidelong glance at the two soldiers next to him. The three of them were all that remained. All past differences aside, now they only had each other. Between the three of them, they could keep the memories of the dead alive. Athrun wondered vaguely if Nicol would have been proud.

"Maybe the images and details fade," Athrun decided after a pause. "Everything fades, but even so…" He felt the grass beneath his fingers. He was grateful he'd been destined to go on.

"Even so, I guess we never really _forget_. Maybe we just aren't able to. And because we can't, people like Nicol keep on living, in a sense."

Dearka seemed to think it over. "Then, in a way," he said, "You're wrong. Nothing really fades after all."

Athrun smiled. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

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_A/N: I get the sense that this is my worst piece EVER. Which is absolutely pathetic. I could blame many things for that, but I won't, because I don't even really understand what went wrong myself and I don't have the time to figure it out. The way the words flowed just turned out to be… such shit. Or something. I wanted to get this up in time though, so here you have my garbage for the sake of posting something on February 14th. I still love the idea behind it though, so I swear to the Gundam SEED gods that I am going to completely re-write this another time and make it… better. ARRGH. _

_I hate college at the moment. Slumps like this are why I never update my fanfics._


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